Amit Parmessur

Biography: Amit Parmessur hails from the amazing island of Mauritius. For someone who once hated poetry, he has been published in over 85 magazines since starting to submit his poems late 2010. Burnt Bridge, The Camel Saloon, The Scarlet Sound, Negative Suck, BoySlut, Red Fez and Eunoia Revieware some of the places where he has appeared. He has recently published a book on blog entitled Lord Shiva & other poems at http://booksonblog4.blogspot.com/.The Winter’s Song

The mournful chirps

Of the city

In winter

Hurt my heart

Like languid violin

Sobs.

All tense

And pale, when

Church bells chime,

I remember

Days of virginity

And I weep

And I go

In the biting wind

That hurls me

Onto the royal bridge,

Just like

A gregarious brat.

Black Letters

The gay gillyflowers flew from

the window to the roof, cooing

in unison. It was cold.

And I was sick at heart.

I walked on the frozen pavement

with a man sweeping

the street with a shivering spade.

With a heavy valise full of morals

in my hand I couldn’t feel

the snow terminating its

heavenly descent on my old skull.

I have lost my innocence on life’s

Pitiless path, so much that the snow

was like black ink on

the white page of my mislaid dream.

At night when

I checked my rusty pigeonhole I

saw letters full of cold letters.

More, more black snow.

I took a phallus and killed the

two pigeons sleeping near my window,

with one bullet.

Pitilessly.

Uselessly Sweet

My voracious dream wears out, leaving

in the midst of a briny tear the keepsake

of a love uselessly sweet.

I am perhaps suffering tremendously

from those loud beats of hungry hearts,

including my neighbor’s black magic.

My skin is dying from the scars that

exaggerate what I want to undrape,

my blue visage looking like a very

pallid replica of a confident god.

In my haunted mind now

there is an invisible slate, one upon which

I am trying to peruse the promise

made by an unfaithful queen.

My poor wrist’s bleeding,

its scarlet tears dirtying the crumbling ceiling,

as an ancient hiss manifests

itself, all around me.

Is my tainted forehead a blasphemous wall?

Am I an incomplete clown deserted

by a lover tortured by visions

uselessly sweet?

Where Lies My Love

I know, you don’t have to tell me

the dead are not dead until we’ve forgotten them.

Under a most priceless morsel of sky my love

dwells, solemnly, in that howling graveyard.

This graveyard is not a graveyard.

These tombs are not lifeless repositories.

They are the fashion shop windows

where the mannequins have grimaced for eternity

showing how to die is an awesome adventure.

There lies my love, so young, so calm.

I simply sit there with a spider tattoo, cigarette in mouth,

a cluster of souvenirs round the wrist, guarding it.

And these mannequins do not frighten

me as I do not aspire to be one of them.

People say I am mad. Who cares when the one

I loved deceived me and I slammed her and killed her.

As soon as my love died I starting living.

I was late.

That’s all.

That’s all.

My September

Nothing’s warm, not even the smallest rat

And you know, it’s not something I like

Really, there’s nothing on that virgin plain

Why dark, dreary September days always say that

Joy will be like footsteps, to and fro over muddy puddles

Janus always sings promise and coaxes me to forget

Dead years. I know time

fools such songs with the same blunders

Each year turns me into a marionette

but I’m not dumb.

A blinding blizzard’s biting blast,

January’s robust rain falls long and hard over me,

even in September which isn’t peaceful perfection,

and my heart’s hearth remains wrapped in the wet

gloves of ambivalence

The gusts steal the joy from my hands while I

muse by the window, pale and numb

with no freedom and no possibility of freedom

Why my gardens always don coats

of callous September gloom?

I know, something’s wrong in my life

Sinister snow keeps falling thick and

fast in my room and no force can thaw it for me

Dear Joy I’m not uninhabitable!

So, when I wince in October, you’ll have to listen And flap your wings to me